The Truman Show
by unoriginal-elizabeth
Summary: Flashfic for December. "Truman," Paul says, "you stole a car. Does it really need...spicing up?"


NOTES: FIRST OF ALL - THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR A GOOD FEW EPISODES IN SEASON 4, INCLUDING ONE THAT HASN'T AIRED YET. Sorry for the capslock, but I don't want to harsh it if anyone's staying spoiler free.

The prompt I chose was: "A Truman/Casey story from Truman's point of view. Must include an explanation for the stolen car incident that got him kicked out of private school. Include Derek's reaction to the couple."

This is my first flashfic - I hope it works for you, December :) Thanks for the cool prompt!

DISCLAIMER: I don't own LWD, and I don't think I'd want to own Truman, to be perfectly honest :)

* * *

Depending on your perspective, this is a story about a car.

Or maybe, it's a story about a girl.

Or maybe, it's a story about something else – something completely different.

But the really cool thing is – _you_ get to choose. Isn't that quirky and fun? But then, that's just the kind of guy Truman is.

Maybe that's because –

a) He's "hostile to the process." (Dr. P)

b) He's "got more defences than a medieval castle." (Dr. M)

c) He read a lot of '_Choose Your Own Adventure'_ books when he was a kid.

* * *

The problem with therapists – and Truman's had two and a half, so he knows what he's talking about – is that they never ask the right questions.

They always want to know _why._ _Why _did you say that? _Why _did you skip class? _Why _did you start that fight?

Lately of course, it's been – _why_ did you take that car? And then they look at him – like they expect him to just _tell them_. But if he does that...then where's the mystery? Where's the intrigue?

Where's the _fun?_

Before you rush to judge, it's not like he doesn't give out _hints. _His life is a giant game of _Clue_.

But, getting back to his original point – '_why' _really isn't the question they should be asking him.

The real question is – _why not?_

* * *

On his first day at Sir John Sparrow Thompson High, his mom commemorates the occasion by actually dressing for breakfast.

She hunches at the breakfast island, hands cupped around her coffee and watches him get ready. "Are you nervous?" she asks.

He raises his eyebrows at her. "Nervous? Please. One look at me and the student body won't know what hit it."

She doesn't seem reassured. "Do you want me to drive you? I could drive you there, if you want."

"No," he says quickly. "That's okay."

Maybe this is because –

a) It's his first day at a _new_ school, not his first day at school, period. When you hit double digits, showing up _anywhere_ with your mom is not a reputation-enhancer.

b) His mom's a pretty bad driver.

c) She's wearing her new favorite outfit. Knee-length grey cardigan accessorized with toothpaste stains down the front, and a pair of jeans two sizes too big.

* * *

His first therapist was Dr. P., short for Dr. Pelletier. He had a framed picture of a surfer on his wall, and said things like, "What's the haps?" with a completely straight face. The second was Dr. M., short for Dr. Morgenstern. She had a killer 'unimpressed' look, orthopaedic shoes, and a photograph on her desk of two children who she _claimed _were her grandkids – but Truman thought might have come with the frame.

Paul Greebie is the half. The guy is _half _computer science teacher, _half _guidance counselor. And Truman figures out really quickly that 'guidance counselor' is public-school for _half_-assed therapy substitute.

_Truman's _probably more qualified than this guy. At least he's a _whole_ smartass.

The first thing the guy does is ask Truman to call him Paul. Even Dr P., who was really into the whole "let's pretend we're buddies," style of counselling, didn't ask Truman to call him Jim.

Then Just-call-me-Paul asks him if there's anything he'd like to talk about.

"Like what?" he says.

"I don't know," Just-call-me-Paul says, but at least he doesn't follow that up with _How about that time you stole a car?_ Subtlety. Truman appreciates that. "You've changed schools, moved house...I mean, it sounds like you've got a lot going on."

He'll hand it to him – Just-call-me-Paul is working the counselor-buddy thing. His 'I'm genuinely interested in you and your problems' face seems sincere, and he's got a nice line in self-deprecation. Plus, he doesn't call Truman 'son' or 'my man' or 'pal.' Ultimately, it doesn't make the whole 'counselor-buddy' thing any less annoying, but Truman can appreciate a good performance.

It doesn't change the outcome of course...

"You know what? There _is_ something that's been bothering me," he says, finally.

Just-call-me-Paul leans forward, hands clasped together. "Okay – well, do you want to talk about it?"

Truman says, slowly, forcing the words out, "I know it's a long shot – but do you think _Transformers 2 _can ever live up to the original?"

Just-call-me-Paul blinks. "That's...what's bothering you?"

Truman nods and tries to decide. Disappointed look (a la Dr. P)? Or 'cut the crap' scolding (a la Dr. M)?

Just-call-me-Paul looks at him, and Truman could swear he sees his mouth twitch. Gravely, Just-call-me-Paul says, "Well, that's a difficult question. I mean, on one hand, people have all these expectations – no matter how good the movie is, can it really live up to that?"

"And on the other hand?" he asks.

"On the other hand, does that even matter? There are more robots in the sequel."

Truman grins...

...and Just-call-me-Paul wins enough bonus points to get _one_ car story.

* * *

You probably want to know – _why_ Casey McDonald?

Yeah, he's told you already, the question should be – _why not _Casey McDonald?

Or, if you're going to ask...at least mix it up a little. Instead of _why _try – _when._

_When Casey McDonald?_

Here are some possible answers.

a) The second he saw her. Come on, she's a pretty girl, he's a guy with a history of _liking_ pretty girls...does it have to be rocket science?

b) The second she brushed past without even noticing him, even though he'd given her the works – once over, flirtatious smile, wink. He's always liked a challenge.

c) The second he realized that there was nothing to _do _in Backwardsville, Ontario. Truman really hates being bored.

* * *

For his second session with Paul, he arrives five minutes late, because some girl stopped him in the hallway and begged him to re-evaluate her hotness. He drops onto the chair and says, "Any questions?"

"Um, excuse me?" Paul blinks at him.

He tries for innocence and repeats, "Any questions?"

Paul looks confused, and Truman _almost _feels sorry for the guy.

"See, I've been thinking," he says, confidently, "These little get-togethers are probably going to be a regular thing for us – which I'm really looking forward to, obviously" –

"I can tell," Paul says, eyebrows rising. Hey, is that _sarcasm?_ Nice-guy sarcasm, obviously, but still...

" – and I've been wondering, how can I make sure we start off on the right foot? And it occurred to me – I'm probably the most interesting case you've got" –

"Actually I have a very full caselo" –

"Please, Paul," he holds up a hand. Paul probably can't disclose any details of the paste-eating mouth-breathers his office regularly holds, and even if he could, Truman's not interested. "Anyway, I was thinking, you're probably dying to let loose and ask some tough questions. So, whenever you're ready..."

He holds out his hands in a 'go to town' gesture.

"Um. O...Okay," Paul says, "If that's what you want...?"

He looks at Truman questioningly, and Truman says, smirk coloring his words, "Please. I want the healing to begin." Dr. M. would be all over his ass for that one – wrinkled lips all pursed, croaking disapprovingly, _'Truman French, the only artist I know who works mainly in the medium of_ bullshit_.'_ But it seems to sail right over this guy's head.

"Well, I guess – I mean, I know we discussed it yesterday, but...I'd really like to hear more about the car," he decides.

"No problem," Truman says, easily. "Okay, picture this..." he leans forward and prepares to rock Paul Greebie's world.

Ten action packed minutes later, and he's finishing up. "...I turn the corner and – dead end." He shakes his head and sighs.

"...wow," Paul says.

"So – what do you think?" He leans back in the chair and props his ankle on his knee.

"I think – that's a really interesting...story," Paul says.

"I'm a really interesting guy," Truman acknowledges. He amps up the self-satisfied smirk.

"I'm a little confused though..."

"I'm happy to take questions," Truman offers, then points, "Yes, you, behind the desk."

"I can't help noticing that the last time you told that story...the car was a blue Honda, not a red Mercedes. And I don't remember the high-speed police chase."

He smiles unrepentantly. "Just trying to spice it up a little."

Paul looks at him – a familiar look, concerned. "Truman," he says gently, "You stole a car. Does it really _need_...spicing up?"

* * *

Three days at Sir John Sparrow Thompson High, and he's approaching legend status. Girls parade in front of him in the hallways, and most guys seem too dazzled by the noticeable hike in hemlines to care about why the hallway scenery is so appearance obsessed.

Sometimes, everything clicks into place so easily it's...almost disappointing. Girls are flocking up to him to be _rated, _and the guys don't seem to care that Truman French is suddenly the judge of Canada's Next Top Model.

Even his first meeting with Casey, now – given her carefully applied makeup, short skirt and complicated hair – fully aware of her rating on the Truman scale, goes according to plan.

"You guys are looking spiffy. Trying to boost your rating?"

She's offended, infuriated...

"Please – your rating is insulting to our intelligence. Though, we are _curious_ as to how you can rate someone without even meeting them."

...and she's also _interested._

Sometimes...sometimes, he thinks the problem is...he's too good. Like – most of the time, he can predict how things will go down. And most of the time – he's right.

* * *

" – so, after I wrestled the keys from his hands, I..." he stops. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Sure thing," Paul says. "What do you want to talk about?"

The guy's so agreeable and such a pushover that...Truman frowns and tries to remember how they started talking about the car-incident in the first place. Because he's pretty sure he meant to steer this session away from that. It doesn't _matter, _of course, because he launched into version 3.0 of the car-incident without even thinking, but...it's weird that he can't remember what started it.

"Let me guess," Paul says. "It's a girl." He folds his arms and smiles at Truman conspiratorially – and Dr. P. really needs to take lessons, because this? This is how the 'think of me as a slightly older buddy/mentor' thing is done. He doesn't feel even a little creeped out.

Part time computer science teacher or not, Paul Greebie is _good_.

Not as good as _Truman_, of course, but...

"What makes you think there's a girl?" he challenges.

"I don't know. A hunch? Guidance counselor's instinct? The fact that you got bored with your story just at the part where you wrestled the car keys from your ex-principal?" He pauses, "By the way – making him a black belt in karate in this version? Nice touch."

Truman inclines his head. And maybe it's just the fact that Paul has a sense of humor – something sadly lacking in Drs. P. and M., but he finds himself leaning forward and admitting, "Okay. Maybe there is a girl."

"And does she _maybe_ have a name?" Paul asks, looking amused. He takes a sip of coffee from the cup on his desk.

"Casey," he says.

Paul chokes. "Casey," he wheezes. "Casey _McDonald_?"

"You know her?" Truman asks, over the sound of Paul coughing. But, of course, this is Sir John Sparrow Thompson High, where they're so short of resources that the computer science teacher doubles as a guidance counselor. It would be weird if he _didn't_ know her.

Anyway, Casey kind of...stands out.

Paul holds up a hand and thumps his chest as he coughs one last time. "Okay," he says, mostly to himself. "This...is going to be interesting." He focuses on Truman again. "So...Casey?" he prompts.

So he talks about Casey, and of course, this involves talking about his strategy. Paul's eyebrows furrow, and when Truman finishes talking he says, slowly, "You don't think that's a very – extreme way of getting her attention? Not to mention...kind of mean?"

"I'm going to tell her the truth. Eventually," he qualifies.

"Eventually as in..."

"When she agrees to date me." He quirks his lips at Paul. "See, any girl I date...she's an automatic ten."

"I...see," Paul says. "That's...interesting."

The guy's such a walkover he says 'interesting' when he clearly means 'obnoxious.'

"And what about the other girls you rated?"

Truman stares at him for a long minute. "What?"

"You're going to tell Casey the truth, but what about those other girls? Are they going to get an explanation? Or – an apology?" he raises his eyebrows hopefully.

"The strategy was about Casey," he says finally.

"But you rated other girls too."

"Well, yeah, but..."

Paul makes a 'go on' gesture. He's leaning forward, completely involved, looking like he's just dying for Truman's reply. More than that – he looks like he's actually rooting for Truman to come up with the perfect answer.

"Come on, Paul," he tries.

Paul's expression shifts from expectant to 'is that it?'

"Look, any girl who lets a complete stranger's rating of how cute she is, affect her long-term...she's got problems. Problems that have got _nothing_ to do with me."

"That private school you went to...it was an all boys school, right?" Paul muses.

Okay, time to pull back. He grins. "Leaving aside the moral issue," he says, stressing the last two words to show what a _non-_issueit is to him, "You've got to admit, as an attention-getting strategy, it's solid."

"It's _different, _all right," Paul says carefully. Then, tilting his head, he says, "If you don't mind my asking –how did you come up with it?"

He maintains eye-contact. "I don't remember," he says, then glances at his watch. "But hey, I should go. I've got a big date to prepare for tonight."

"Casey?" Paul asks.

"No. Her best friend."

As he closes the door, he hears Paul mutter, "Interesting. This is _definitely_ going to be...interesting."

* * *

You're probably going to ask _how _he figures out that his rating scale...isn't such a good idea.

Since it's not a _why _question, Truman's going to allow it.

So take your pick –

a) The conversation he has on his date with Emily, which begins when the twitchy waiter finally leaves them alone.

"He seemed kind of upset," Truman says, and smirks at her. "Don't tell me I've got competition already."

"Who? Derek?" Emily sounds surprised. She twists around in her seat, then turns back to him and shakes her head. "He's just...kind of protective. And with your reputation" –

"I have a reputation?" he feigns ignorance.

Badly, if Emily's look is anything to go by. "Come on, Truman. You've rated every girl in school. Not exactly the action of a guy trying to keep a low profile."

"But _you_ agreed to a date with me," he points out. "So my _reputation _is clearly working for you." He flashes a smile.

"Okay, you're cute," she says, trying to sound matter of fact. "You have a whole cute..._thing _going on. And..." she stops.

"Go on," he says, smirking.

She looks embarrassed. "You...gave me a nine." She half-shrugs, like it's no big deal.

Obviously, he doesn't call a halt there and then. But maybe, looking back on it...maybe that's the moment where it stops being _fun_. Because Emily's Casey's best friend – and it can't be easy to always be an 'also-ran'. Maybe...if she wasn't Casey's best friend, she'd get higher ratings. But she is. And, honestly? In comparison, she's just a seven.

b) On his date with Kendra, when he finds out that the twitchy waiter is Casey's stepbrother. And that, instead of making her jealous, his strategy might actually have made her hate him. Kind of ironic that the one girl he organized this whole thing for...is the only girl in school who won't fall in with his plan. Well, he wanted a challenge...

c) He gets home one evening, and his mom's in a pretty good mood, smiling at him and talking non-stop.

"Hey, Tru – how was your day?" she says. "Classes go okay?" Then, without waiting for his reply, "You want anything special for dinner? I went to the store today, so we are _stocked._"

She smiles at him, flushed and proud and he doesn't say – _like that? You went outside looking like that?_ Her limp hair is scraped off her face with an elastic, she's wearing a fuzzy lime-green sweater that makes her skin look grey, and the same pair of too-baggy jeans tucked into ankle boots.

He doesn't say it – but he thinks..._2/10._

* * *

Here's where it gets weird. Because, even if things haven't exactly worked out as he planned, Truman's still got a good idea of how this thing is going to end.

An impromptu feminist fashion show...really isn't on the cards.

And even though Casey admits he's _why_ she mounted her clothing campaign...

"But you did want to sabotage me, because of my list?"

"Well, _yeah_!"

...when she figures out that she already _had _his attention – he doesn't even get a kiss. Unless a kiss off counts.

She's not just beautiful and smart – she's surprising, too – unpredictable. He'd thought she was a ten, but it turns out, she rates completely off the scale.

* * *

This time, it's the minimalist version. "I got the keys. I went outside. I found the car. I unlocked it. I drove around the block. I came back. I stopped the car. I got out. I got expelled. Okay?" It's getting harder and harder to keep the bored amusement in his tone.

Paul doesn't say anything, and Truman rolls his eyes. "What?"

"How about...once more – with feelings this time?" Paul Greebie suggests, wryly.

"I'm _feeling_ bored with this story," he says. "It's really not that interesting." Counselors read into stupid stuff all the time, which is why he's trying to keep his voice even, and not annoyed. He's tired of talking about this.

"Really?" Paul says, and he doesn't have Dr. M's crisp 'You're bullshitting me' tone, but it turns out that for a buddy-Counsellor he does okay scepticism.

"Don't you think you're a little unhealthily fixated on this whole incident?" Truman diverts. He leans forward, clasping his hands together like he's seen Paul do. In a voice dripping with sincerity, he stabs at what he figures is a weak spot, "What is it – a vicarious way to relive your not-so-wild youth?"

Paul is one of those guys who might as well have been born in a sweater vest.

"It's okay – you can tell me," he tilts his head sympathetically, "I'm not here to judge you."

"Okay," Paul says honestly, totally disregarding the snideness of his tone. "I guess I keep bringing it up, because...you clearly don't want to talk about it." He shrugs. "I just figured anything you're trying so hard to avoid dealing with has _got _to be important."

He pulls out his best careless smile. "An interesting hypothesis," he says. "But a bit...too obvious, don't you think?"

"What do you" – Paul begins.

"I mean, I'm a complicated guy, but I'm getting the impression you're only interested in my bad-boy cred. I'm starting to feel _objectified _here, Paul."

"I guess you could always tell me the truth about the car, and find out," Paul suggests, with the most innocent expression on his face that Truman's ever seen.

He's said it before, but it's worth a repeat. Paul Greebie...is _good._

Imagine what he could do if he had _real _training.

* * *

Okay...if you still want to know _why _Casey...

a) It takes her forever to give in. She says there's nothing between them, then _kisses him, _and doesn't seem to get that one of these things contradicts the other.

"See? No big deal for either of us."

Whatever strategy he's working...she doesn't just lie there and _take _it. She _matches _it. Every time he tries to call it – she raises the stakes. That's how this relationship thing _should _work.

b) He tells her the truth. He tells her he stole a car – depending on your definition of 'stealing.'

And yeah, she's shocked – and probably intrigued –

"That's like...Grand Theft Auto!"

But..._she doesn't ask him why._

c) He genuinely doesn't know what she's going to do next. That's a novelty, and novelty's always interesting.

* * *

The weird thing is...no matter how many times Truman dashes his hopes, Paul still seems to operate on a good faith assumption that eventually, Truman's going to be honest with him.

The even weirder thing is...this doesn't make Paul seem completely stupid. Overly-hopeful, maybe – especially for a public-school employee. Truman doesn't see how optimism's going to wear him down where brute force and Dr. M. failed, but...somehow he can't despise the guy for trying.

So, he's got Paul hooked...right up until –

"Your ex-principal ripped off the mask," he repeats slowly. He closes his eyes. "Let me guess – alien invader?"

"Obviously, I fled the scene when he demanded that I take him to our leader," Truman says with a straight face. "Strange thing though, no-one believed me when I told them." He shakes his head sadly.

"I'm not surprised," Paul says dryly, "since that's not the truth – it's the plot of a Will Smith movie." He sighs. "Truman...don't you ever get tired of...playing games?"

He's so surprised the words tumble out before he thinks them through. "Hey – that's weird, my girlfriend just said the same thing. Well, not exactly the same thing, but" –

Paul's eyebrows shoot up. "Your girlfriend? So, Casey said yes?"

He covers his slip smoothly. "Matter of time," and he winks.

* * *

Casey gets kicked out of fencing class, and they have an argument/flirtation that ends with Casey saying, completely exasperated and seemingly sincere, "So _stop_ with the games, because I am done playing."

You're probably wondering _why _he chooses to ignore Casey's last words when he's trying to get her back into fencing class, and tells Fergus a lie about her anger-management issues instead.

a) He knows she doesn't mean it. And, considering she one-ups him later...that's a pretty good guess.

b) He's been playing games for so long now, that he...can't even imagine what a relationship is like _without_ games.

c) Or maybe he knows _exactly_ what a relationship looks like when you take away the games. Trust him, it's not something Casey wants to experience.

* * *

The good thing is that when he talks about Casey, it distracts Paul from being boring about his recent automobile-borrowing.

So he tells Paul about their first two dates. Maybe he wants, a little, to see what take Paul has on it.

Paul's quiet for a second when he finishes. Then he says, "So, why'd you walk away?"

"What?"

"At the end of your second date, why'd you walk away? I mean, you promised Casey she could plan the perfect date...did you really expect her to _not_ take full advantage of that?" He sounds like he has doubts about Truman's IQ.

"Well, yeah, but..." he pauses, trying to explain, "We talked about our hopes and dreams, and a _summer house in Provence, _over crème brulee!"

"Not your idea of a good date?"

"What was your first clue?" he asks sarcastically.

"Oh," Paul says, slowly, like something's just dawning on him. "So...games are only fun when you're the one playing them?"

"What? That's not" – he stumbles because Paul is so completely off base. Obviously. He tries to explain. "Look – it was like...she didn't even need me there. Like...she just wanted some generic perfect guy in a merino sweater."

"So the terrible date...was a true expression of who 'Truman' is?" Paul asks doubtfully.

"That was a joke!" he protests. "It was supposed to be funny, a" –

"Game?" Paul suggests, raising his eyebrows.

He shakes his head, but he doesn't deny it. For some weird reason, counselors aren't like the rest of the world. They take denial as affirmation (and curiously, they also take affirmation as affirmation).

So instead, he blows out a breath. "Okay, it's like this," he says finally. "On my sixth birthday, I really wanted this...I don't even remember what it was called. This soldier-gadget thing. And when I ripped open my presents...it wasn't there. I didn't get it."

Paul tilts his head at him.

"It gets worse. I had a rainbow cake instead of an airplane cake, and later on, when I was running, I fell over and knocked out a tooth."

Paul makes a face. "Wow –sounds like a bad birthday."

"It was _memorable_," he corrects.

"You know, on my eleventh birthday party," Paul says conversationally, "Everything went right, for once. I had three pieces of cake, I got the skateboard, Maria Martin wished me a happy birthday...I didn't even know she knew who I was!" He clears his throat. "My point is – that birthday was memorable too."

Truman shrugs. "Good, bad – memorable's the important part."

* * *

Would it surprise you to find out that Truman's voice mail is full of messages from his grandparents? And that they're the first number on his speed-dial?

You know how it goes by now. Either –

a) His mom's even less together than she seems. Feel free to choose this one, but...he doesn't know if it's possible for a person to _be _less together than she seems.

b) His grandparents have a lot of free time on their hands. Consider this – they have bingo on Thursday nights, and he never gets a call then.

c) He's really close to his grandparents. It's possible that you've totally misjudged him. Don't worry – he won't hold it against you.

* * *

"Okay, give me the latest," Paul says eventually, palms open, ready.

"The latest?"

"You don't have an appointment scheduled for today. And – you had another date with Casey last night."

"And you just..._assume_ that something went wrong?" he puts on his best amused face.

"As assumptions go, it seems like a pretty safe one. So, what happened?" He smiles and settles in his chair, like he's ready for the long haul.

"Nothing happened," he denies. Still amused. Why wouldn't he be?

"We don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to."

He challenges, "Maybe you're wrong. Did you ever think about that? Maybe I don't want to talk about my problems with Casey, because there _are_ no problems with Casey."

Casey's beautiful, and smart, and funny, and no matter what he throws at her, she always rises to the occasion. Why would he have problems with Casey?

"Okay," Paul says, holding out his hands. "Okay. So, what _do_ you want to talk about?"

Truman leans back in his chair and considers him. "You," he decides finally.

"Me?"

"Yeah," he says, warming to the idea. "I mean, you want to hear all about me, but I don't know anything about you. Does that seem fair to you?"

"Well, since that's part of my job description, I'd have to say – yeah?"

Truman shakes his head sadly. "I'm not feeling the trust, Paul. It's not just a one-way street, you know."

Paul looks at him for a long minute, before saying, "Okay. What do you want to know?"

Truman blinks. "Really?" Dr. P. had quickly moved the conversation to non-personal hobbies, while Dr. M. had given him a lecture about boundaries and inappropriate questions and the sanctity of the doctor-patient relationship. In hindsight, it probably hadn't been such a good idea to ask her how she had grandchildren when he thought creatures like her ate their young.

"Shoot," Paul says and visibly braces himself.

Truman thinks for a second. "Tell me about your family," he says finally.

It's Paul's turn to blink. "For some reason I was expecting 'most embarrassing memory.'"

He shrugs. "I like to mix it up. I've got to keep you on your toes somehow." He cups a hand under his chin and smirks. "Go on...I'm listening."

"O...kay. Well...there's me. And my – I'm married, so I have a – a wife. Obviously. Janette. And I – that is we...we have a little boy. Dylan."

"What's he like?"

"He's seven," Paul says, relaxing a little. "and he likes cars, and airplanes. And lately, something called a chokeslam." He stops, mouth twitching. "He's – ah, got poor impulse control. Reminds me of someone – I wish I could put my finger on who..."

Truman tips his head. "Nice," he acknowledges. "Direct hit."

"Sorry," Paul says, with a smile. "I couldn't resist."

"Don't worry about it," Truman shrugs. "I'm adamantium coated."

Paul regards him. "Really? Must come in handy, sometimes." His voice is quiet and his eyes are intent on Truman in the ensuing silence.

Truman looks back at him. Then he takes a breath and begins, "Okay, so we're on our date, and Casey's cell phone starts ringing..."

* * *

Family is really important to Casey. She doesn't say this, but it comes across very clearly. Sometimes, it feels like he's dating all the McDonald-Venturis, instead of one member. It's okay, mostly.

You probably think that he and Derek get along really well. After all, they have so much in common.

Or maybe you think they hate each other. Maybe they have _too much _in common.

Maybe the truth is somewhere in the middle.

a) Maybe Truman doesn't like Derek because of this conversation –

"Dude," Derek says slowly, "Are you trying to...bond?" He sounds mystified and slightly mocking.

Truman keeps the little smile on his face and says, "I _am_ dating your stepsister. That makes us practically" –

"What?" Derek interrupts. "Stepbrothers in law?" He shakes his head incredulously. "No, the only thing that makes you, is _creepy, _for putting that much thought into it."

"You know – you two really do have a lot in common," Ralph says suddenly, putting down his sandwich on the cafeteria table.

Derek gives him a withering look before turning back to Truman. "Look – you like Casey, Casey likes you." He pauses. "You have my condolences, by the way." He places a hand on Truman's shoulder, "Now, why don't you be a good boyfriend and flail for her attention...over there." He pushes.

Just because "the attention-seeking missile" was Dr. M's nickname for him...doesn't mean he likes being called so _blatantly_ on it.

b) Maybe _Derek _doesn't like Truman because of this conversation.

"No, that one's...fine," Truman says. "Really."

"You paused!" Casey accuses, then looks down at herself. "I knew this was the wrong one. I'm going to change." She speeds upstairs.

"Nice," Derek says. He doesn't turn his head from the television. "Nine and a half out of ten."

"What?" Truman says.

"On the 'how to mess with Casey' scale. You scored a nine and a half. I'm impressed. You get full marks for style and execution, but you lost a half mark on time."

"You could do better, I suppose," he challenges.

Derek inclines his head, but still doesn't look at Truman.

"Well, I guess you have known her longer," he says. He stresses the word longer. 'Longer' and 'better' both have six letters – but they aren't interchangeable_. _

Derek acts like they are. "It takes time to become a true master of what makes Casey tick. And what makes Casey _explode,_" he says, grin clear in his words. "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll get there. Eventually."

He grits his teeth and forces himself to smile.

Casey thumps down the stairs again, this time dressed in outfit number two. Dark jeans and a shimmery blue top. Her hair is loose and wavy and he can't speak for a second when he looks at her.

"What about this one?" she asks, looking at him. At _him, _not at Derek, and he considers her for a moment, before saying, "That one's – fine too."

His pause is infinitesimal, but her face still falls, and she turns. Her feet thump up the stairs again and he darts a glance of triumph at the back of Derek's head.

This is another likely contender – Derek strikes Truman as the type who doesn't like to lose.

c) Maybe most of their conversations go like this.

"Your girlfriend has reached critical spaz," Derek says as he passes. "You might want to check on her."

"What is it this time?"

"How would I know? You're the one who has to pretend to care."

Just because Truman's Casey's boyfriend, and Derek's Casey's stepbrother, doesn't mean they have to feel much about each other one way or another. That's a logical assumption, right?

* * *

Here's how Casey meets his mom. She shows up at his door with some of his homework that got mixed up with hers. And his mom invites her in.

It could be worse. She's still wearing outfits a tramp would dismiss as unflattering, but luckily, it's the week she rediscovers personal hygiene.

He's late home – in the wrong place at the wrong time, he ends up with detention for skipping class. And when he walks in the door, he sees the two of them on the couch, deep in discussion.

"Hey, what's going on"- he starts, but Casey holds up her hand, warning him to be quiet. Even though his mother turns around, she still keeps speaking.

"– the hectic music and cocktail talk, she hears the caustic ticking of the clock," she finishes, then smiles at him.

"That's beautiful," Casey says. She shakes her head wonderingly. "That's amazing, the way you remember it all."

"I did a paper on her," his mom says, tucking her hair behind her ears. "I suppose some of it just...stuck." She twists her body as Truman comes to stand next to her, and her arm goes around his waist. "Right, like a well-done sum," she says softly, looking up at him.

He smiles back, and even though he means to suggest that Casey has somewhere else to be...looking down at his mom, that doesn't come out. Instead, he sits down and lets her talk to Casey, bright and smiling and –

"No way!" he says, shaking his head. "You were a _cheerleader_ in high school?" He doesn't know whether to be appalled or amused, so he tries both.

She looks at him, fighting the smile creeping across her face and teases, "What's the matter – you didn't know your old lady had game?"

"Please – don't _ever_ call it that," he begs, grinning, surprised.

This is, of course, the moment that the phone rings. She fumbles it out of her oversized cardigan pocket. "I should – um, I should..." she says, staring down at the screen. "Sorry – I have to..." she gestures vaguely as she makes her way out to the kitchen.

"I brought you your homework," Casey says brightly, holding it up.

"Great. Thanks," he says, taking it from her with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

"Where were you, anyway?"

"Extra study." He looks over Casey's shoulder, into the kitchen, where he can see his mom, shoulders hunched and head down, speaking quietly into her cell phone.

She doesn't question him. Instead, she says, "Your mom's really nice."

"Yeah," he says, and smiles at her.

At that moment, his mom pokes her head out from the kitchen, and motions him with her hand. "Tru, it's your dad," she says, "Do you want to talk to him?"

"I'm kind of busy here, mom." He waves towards Casey. "I'll call him back."

"I should probably be going anyway," Casey excuses, getting up from the couch and brushing non-existent wrinkles from her skirt. "I don't want to miss dinner – Lizzie's taken over the kitchen this week for a healthy eating project, and I promised I'd help her force – I mean, _serve _– her special Brussel sprout soufflé."

"I'll see you out," Truman says, hand already on her back.

She lingers on the doorstep. "See, that wasn't so bad," she says softly. "I don't know why you were so scared of me meeting her."

"Hey, I wasn't _scared,_" he denies immediately.

"Truman," she says in exasperation, and he braces for an argument. But she just looks at him. "Truman..." she says again, but her tone is completely different. Softer. And suddenly, her arms are around him, and she smells so good that he just buries his face against her neck and closes his eyes.

When she's gone, he goes inside again, and his mom's sitting on the couch. "I like her," she offers, as he closes the door.

"You should set up a mutual fan club," he says lightly. "She liked you too."

His mom smiles. "She's a nice girl." She bites her lip and the smile fades. "Truman..." she says hesitantly. "About your dad..."

She fidgets with the end of her cardigan, rolling the hem between her fingers. Finally, carefully, she says, "I'd hate for you to feel...that you have to choose sides. This..." her hand flutters up towards her chest before dropping to her lap again, "...it doesn't change how he feels about _you_. And you shouldn't let it" –

"Mom," he says, "I had a cute girl over. I'll catch up with him later." Every word is slow, spelling it out, like he's talking to a confused child.

"Don't you use that tone with me!" she says suddenly, fiercely, startling them both. Awkward. She flushes, and gets to her feet.

He trails after her as she goes into the kitchen, and he stands in the doorway, watching her take out plates and cutlery. She pretends not to notice him watching.

"I still can't believe you were a cheerleader," he says finally, a kind of peace-offering. Maybe he's not the kind of guy who says sorry easily, or maybe saying sorry means acknowledging things neither of them wants to acknowledge.

Whatever magic Casey worked is gone though. She barely spares him a glance as she gets out two glasses. "It was a long time ago, Tru," she says.

* * *

" – taking a stand against modern attitudes," he finishes. "I mean, if we don't speak out now, who knows where we'll be in twenty years time. Am I right?"

"So, let me get this straight," Paul says slowly, "When you took the car, it was a form of...social commentary." He nods to himself. "Were you actually thinking that at the time...or did the thematic relevance sink in later?"

He looks at Paul, a whole semester wiser, but seemingly no closer to reading him the riot act. He doesn't seem to have a breaking point, and Truman feels...almost nervous. Like he could peddle his best bullshit for years and years, and at the end of it, Paul would still be there, would still be calmly waiting for the truth.

The feeling only lasts for a minute – because _everyone_ has a breaking point. Truman knows that. So the question is motivated by nothing more than curiosity.

"Why do you let me do this?"

"Why do I let you do what?" Paul asks.

He shakes his head. "Come on, Paul – I haven't told you one true word since last semester."

"I think you might be underestimating yourself," Paul says, raising his eyebrows. Truman doesn't rip away his illusions – rose-coloured glasses are probably a necessity of life when you're a public-school guidance counselor.

Instead he says. "Why do you let me do this stuff?" He gestures between them. "Shouldn't there be journals? Puppets? Ink-blots?"

Paul really considers his question – one of the reasons it's impossible to dislike him, and very hard to respect him. "I...don't think you'd react well to those. I mean, from what I've seen...and heard...when someone tries to make you conform to authority, your first instinct is to lash out. And," he continues almost-apologetically, "I just finished paying off my car. Besides, the ink-blots always look like ink-blots to me."

The sincerity in his tone makes Truman uncomfortable as he says, "Anyway, I figure that...when you're ready, you'll realize that...I'm here to help. And then you'll say –whatever you need to."

Truman looks back at him, leaning forward on his desk, fingertips touching. He clears his throat and drawls, "Nice pose – where'd you see it? The latest issue of Counselor's Monthly?"

* * *

When he enters the kitchen, his mom has pink rubber gloves on and is scrubbing the sink. There are way more reflective surfaces in the kitchen than he remembers.

"You know, they're not coming here – you're meeting them at the restaurant," he points out.

"I know," she says, "It's dumb, but...I just feel like they'll know. Like, she'll do her mother-mind-reading and know that the last time I dusted was" –

"Never," he finishes.

She bites her lip.

"I'm kidding," he says quickly. "The place looks great. When are you leaving?"

She looks at the clock. "Ten minutes ago."

If it was him, he'd have chosen punctuality over cleaning the house his grandparents won't even be visiting, but...

"Are you sure you don't want to come?" she wipes the taps down carefully. "You know they'd love to see you."

He shakes his head. "I promised Casey. Tell them I'll call later."

"Okay." She pulls off her gloves and stands in front of him, expectant. "Marks? Seven?" she says hopefully, turning around so he can examine the back. "I know it's kind of _blah_," she makes a face, "...but most of my stuff doesn't fit anymore and I thought this looked okay."

He doesn't want to say it, but she's waiting, so he swallows and says, "You look – great, mom. A total ten."

* * *

"You seem kind of distracted," Paul says. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Truman says. "Not that I can think of. But maybe there's something _you_ want to talk about, Paul?"

Paul looks at him for a long second. "So, how did Casey's audition go?" he tries.

It's a good guess.

"Oh, her audition went well, but now she's mad at me." He doesn't add 'again' to the end of that sentence. "For some reason, you don't seem surprised, Paul," he says, with overdone amazement.

He ignores that last part. "What happened?"

"I don't know." At Paul's look, he stresses, "No, I really don't. I mean, she begs me to come with her, 'for moral support,' and then she spends the whole time freaking out to Emily."

Paul looks at him, "And does Emily" –

"Still hate me for fake-dating her to get Casey's attention? Yeah. So I wasn't exactly a welcome third party."

"Okay, but" –

"And then Derek shows up to take pictures of her in the hat. She starts shouting at him, Emily's trying to calm her down...It struck me as the _perfect_ time to go for a coffee."

"And – did you tell Casey where you were going?"

"She seemed kind of busy," he hedges.

"And let me guess – by the time you came back" –

"I'd missed her audition."

Paul winces. "I think I might have figured out what you did wrong."

Truman blows out a breath, and protests, "She didn't even notice that I left. At first." Since by the time he came back, Casey was...very much aware of his absence.

He shifts under Paul's gaze. Quietly, he says, "She asked you to go with her – she must have wanted you there."

"She had Derek and Emily," he argues. "She spent the whole time talking to them."

"Maybe she was getting something she needed from them," Paul points out. The look on his face makes Truman squirm. On the inside. "Maybe...and this is just a theory, but maybe – Casey's audition wasn't about _you. _Maybe it was about what _Casey_ needed. Or it should have been."

"So next time, I should stay put, so as not to mess with Casey's mojo. Even if it doesn't seem like she knows I'm there. Got it," he says with a salute. "Thanks for the life lesson, Paul – we should do it again, real soon." He gets to his feet.

"Truman," Paul calls, just as he's reaching for the door-handle. He turns around. "You know, Truman," he says conversationally, "If that was a strategy, and I'm not saying that it was...I think it might have backfired. Because instead of punishing Casey for not needing you...all you've done is shown her that she can do it alone. If she has to."

* * *

He's kissing Casey's cousin Vicky. Or Casey's cousin Vicky is kissing him.

You're probably wondering _why. _

a) He tripped, and Vicky caught him by the lips.

b) He wants to know how Casey's going to react.

_c) Why not?_

Like everything involving Casey, it doesn't go the way he thinks it will. There's a confrontation – and maybe, maybe he should have taken into account that besides being his ex-girlfriend, Vicky's also Casey's cousin. There's history there.

So, it's not entirely surprising that Casey doesn't want to listen to him. What _is_ surprising is that he keeps trying, even after he's decided that he really should give her some time to cool down. But whatever he says, she just shakes her head, lips pulling down at the corners, blinking fast.

Of course, the finishing touch is her stepbrother, watching them, arms folded. Hey, his whole relationship with Casey has been a family affair, why not their – completely temporary – break-up, too?

"Get your coat," Derek orders, not unkindly, and she nods.

"Casey," he calls, but she brushes past like she doesn't hear him.

He's going to follow her, but he stops at the sound of slow clapping. Derek Venturi is applauding.

"Dude," he says, shaking his head in mock-admiration, "I take it back. _You_ are the _master_ of messing with Casey's mind."

He flinches. "This wasn't" –

He continues as if he hasn't heard, smiling at Truman, eyes hard. "Even _I _can't mess her up like that. I'm giving you eleven out of ten. The bonus point is for long term damage."

The smile disappears, and Derek claps him on the shoulder, once, too hard, before he moves past him.

He turns.

"Come on, let's go," Derek says, not particularly softly or gently, but his hand is on Casey's back, steering her. Watching her walk away, Truman gets the feeling that Casey's only ever played the kind of games where everyone wins. Too bad he only knows the kind where everyone loses.

The heavy feeling in his chest could be the result of one of three things.

a) The way Casey's moving, head down, slowly – like she has to concentrate on every step...she looks like his mom.

b) If Casey is his mom in this scenario, then that makes him...

c) He just got owned by Derek Venturi.

* * *

When he gets home, the place is dark and his mom isn't there. He calls her name and checks her room, before calling her cell phone. It goes straight to voicemail.

His heart's pounding and he's just starting to worry when the door opens.

"Mom?"

She jumps. "Tru – you nearly gave me a heart attack! I wasn't expecting you home so soon – how was the party?"

"Where were you?" he asks, ignoring the rest.

She smiles brilliantly as she closes the door and hangs up her coat. "I went to a movie," she says. "Do you want something to drink? I'm going to make some hot chocolate."

He swallows. "No, I'm okay."

She wanders into the kitchen and he can hear her filling the kettle. "How was the party?" she asks again. "You're home early."

"Yeah – we just...decided to call it a night," he manages.

There's the sound of a cupboard door opening and closing. "Casey's a good influence on you," she calls. "I'll have to dig out my pom poms. Make up a cheer for her. Two, four, six, eight – who do I appreciate? C-A-S-E-Y – Casey!"

He closes his eyes. He thinks he preferred apathy to this sudden weird good mood.

His mom wanders back out, steaming mug in her hand. "I don't think I've ever seen a movie on my own before," she says. "Isn't that strange? Or _is_ it strange? Maybe the strange thing is going on your own." She looks at him, and something twists in her expression, and suddenly, her free hand is touching his cheek, and she says, half-amazed, like the thought is just occurring to her, "You know something, kiddo? I think...I think we're going to be okay."

* * *

It's quiet in Paul's office, and Paul's got a concerned look on his face.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

One thousand two hundred more ticks and he's done.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

One thousand, one hundred and ninety seven more.

Tick.

"So," Paul says, eventually, carefully, "How...was the party?"

Tick.

"Do you want to know something about me?" Truman bursts out, staring at him.

His tone is all wrong, hard and angry, instead of the 'amused' he was shooting for, and Paul asks, "Truman...is something wrong?"

"Do you want to know the truth?" he repeats. Come on, this is the moment Paul's been waiting for from the beginning. Nice guy or not...at some point, he's got to stop circling and move in for the kill.

Paul looks at him for a long moment. Finally he nods. "Okay," he says.

"Because the truth about me," Truman clears his throat, "The truth is...sometimes I do things – just to see what's going to happen." He smiles, except not. "And the weird thing is? Even when I _know _what's going to happen...I do them anyway."

He stops and swallows.

"Truman – did something happen at the party?" Paul asks.

He speaks fast, spitting the words out like nails. "The principal – my ex-principal – called me into his office and he said, 'We know you're going through a rough time, son,'" he grimaces. "Which...it wasn't _new_, or anything...but. His car keys were on the desk. And I just kept thinking – he kept talking, but all I could think was...what would happen if I did it? If I just...grabbed the keys and took off..."

He stops.

"So what happened?" Paul prompts him.

"He kept talking – all this stuff... 'Calm it down, son', and 'You know you can talk to me, son', and 'I don't think you're helping the situation between them, son'. And I just kept looking at the keys. So, when he answered the phone...I just...picked them up, and left."

He looks down at his hands. "The weird thing was...it wasn't even anything new. Nothing I couldn't handle. Kind of useful, actually." His mouth twists into a smile and he shrugs. "Damaged childhood – it's a pretty good defence for stupid behavior. Works almost all the time. But, with the car...I knew exactly what was going to happen. I mean, with all the stuff I pulled...you have to draw a line somewhere, and this was it. I _knew_ it. And I did it anyway."

Paul looks at him, and uses his mad counselor-skillz. "But _something_ must have been different," he says softly, intent. "What made this time different, Truman?"

He shrugs, but Paul doesn't say anything. The silence wraps around them both. He looks at Paul, and Paul looks at him...

...and waits.

He closes his eyes.

Everyone has a breaking point, and Paul Greebie is _good_.

"This time," he says, trying for steady and matter of fact, "it was different...because – _she_ left _him_."

* * *

So, there are three options here. You can choose whatever one you like.

a) You can take a realistic point of view. That moment in Paul's office is hugely significant – a breakthrough. But of course, further progress depends on what happens _next_.

b) There's always the pessimistic view. He's had 'moments' before. With Dr. M. He even might have had one with Dr. P. It's not a breakthrough...it's an off-day. Even Truman has those, sometimes.

c) Why not try 'wildly optimistic' on for size? They're all breakthroughs. Why not? Every bad day. Every weak moment. He might even be _learning _from them_. _Growing. And maybe...maybe he's even going to be okay...

It all depends on your perspective.


End file.
